


I Was Just A Card

by paperclipbitch



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breathplay, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, also leon/percival i need to write my babies epics, and know i am not pissing off my twitter feed, arthur's boyband need all the fics tbh, elyan is a bamf, elyan is the only competent person on the whole show, hey there's apparently a thing you can do to get rid of freeform tags, so now i can freeform to my heart's content, who knew i even shipped these guys this much omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Modern AU.</i> Gwaine’s terrible at things like commitment, girlfriends, and not accidentally getting himself into the kind of sexual escapades that generally only get written about on specialist websites – next time, Elyan has assured him, he’s just going to <i>leave</i> him handcuffed to the radiator – and Morgana’s terrible at people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was Just A Card

**Author's Note:**

> [title is a Laura Marling song] No show spoilers. Written for the _breathplay_ square of my kink bingo so it does feature that. Also has a few references to medicating mental illness, which I'm pretty sure aren't triggery but I'm warning just in case. I’d like to write something longer and gradual for these two, but, for now, quick and dirty it is. And I’m figuring out my Gwaine voice, so, that’s a thing. Also the _Cosmopolitan_ article mentioned at the beginning is a real thing, which I read quoted online and cracked up at. It also mentioned “toilet paper bondage”, which tbh sounds amazing and I want a ficathon.

“ _Cosmo_ says you’ll find it sexy if I spank you with a hairbrush,” Morgana muses, turning a page.

Gwaine considers this for a moment. “Right,” he manages at last.

“Of course, _Cosmo_ also says that I should spring it on you without asking, so I’ve rather ruined that surprise,” Morgana adds.

He’s mercifully spared formulating a reply by Morgana’s phone going off; she pushes her magazine aside and assumes an expression alarmingly different to the one she wore a moment ago as she says: “Morgana Pendragon speaking.”

Gwaine makes a mental note that she’s _Morgana Pendragon_ this week, and wonders exactly what she wants and from who. Nothing’s ever straightforward with Morgana, not even her name. He uses the opportunity to grab at _Cosmopolitan_ and find out what other horrible ideas it’s putting in Morgana’s head; he’s glad she either hasn’t seen the bit on sensory play involving pricking your sexual partner all over with a fork – which, er, _what_ – and decides to make the effort to keep her away from cutlery at all costs.

_Up to anything good this afternoon?_ Percy’s text makes Gwaine jump, which in turn makes Morgana glare and dig her toes into Gwaine’s thigh. Gwaine assumes a vaguely apologetic expression that he doesn’t mean for a moment, and texts back: _playing with fire_.

After a moment, Percy says: _hopefully not literally this time; pretty sure you gave Leon a heart attack._

That was an educational afternoon for everyone involved, actually, and Gwaine even has the scarring to prove it. Arthur’s ex Sophia was definitely a terrible idea for a number of reasons even before you get into the _bros before hos_ adage. 

Where Morgana fits in is probably somewhere worse, and anyway Lance would probably yell at Leon for using the word _ho_ in the first place.

_I’ll let you know_ , Gwaine tells Percy, and gets a _lol_ back because Leon hasn’t managed to train text speak out of any of them yet.

Morgana terminates her call on a brusque _well, fucking sort it out then_ and arches a meaningful eyebrow at Gwaine. He raises one back.

“Just so you know, if you get out a hairbrush, I’m leaving.”

+

It’s not actually a _thing_ , and they only keep it quiet because Arthur would go spare and then Merlin would have to deal with it and then he’d stop giving Gwaine free coffee whenever he drops by the coffee shop where he works.

Really, Gwaine’s just shagging Morgana for the coffee. 

That’s not the complete truth, but it really isn’t as complicated as other people would make it seem. Gwaine’s terrible at things like commitment, girlfriends, and not accidentally getting himself into the kind of sexual escapades that generally only get written about on specialist websites – next time, Elyan has assured him, he’s just going to _leave_ him handcuffed to the radiator – and Morgana’s terrible at people. Really, they should’ve thought of this years ago, only Morgana was busy having therapy and every kind of medication Uther Pendragon could get a doctor to prescribe, and Gwaine was busy sleeping with everything that crossed his path and taking a _lot_ of antibiotics.

He’s matured a little now. Well, he says that, and they at least remember to use condoms, which is actually medal-worthy in Gwaine’s world of Frankly Inadvisable Sexual Decisions.

It’s just that Morgana is Arthur’s half-sister, and they may have wanted each other dead since Morgana was big enough to figure out that tugging the heads off Arthur’s Action Man dolls would upset him, but that doesn’t mean Arthur is happy when she gets entangled with anyone. If he found out that Morgana was having semi-regular sex with Gwaine he would definitely castrate him, or at the very least have Gwaine’s hair shaved off in his sleep.

It’s a lot of fuss, and anyway, Gwaine’s hair is _amazing_.

So they don’t label it, because it doesn’t need labelling, and they don’t tell anyone about it to save the hassle and the shrieking and the asking-for-details-that-nobody-actually-wants, and it’s actually doing something that closely resembles working. It’s pretty fucking great, actually.

+

“So,” Elyan says, “what’s her name?”

He’s spotting Gwaine lifting weights, and it’s only the fact that Gwaine is not going to mar his _dazzling_ good looks that stops him from dropping the barbell on his nose.

“You can’t interrogate me when I’m working out,” Gwaine tells him breathlessly. “That’s cheating. This is a sacred space.”

“I don’t think it is,” Elyan replies, and when Gwaine spares a glance for him he’s smirking. “It’s just the gym. You don’t even like it that much.”

“ _Sacred. Space._ ” Gwaine grits out. “And anyway, what makes you think there’s a girl?”

“There’s always a girl,” Elyan points out. “And you’re also having a hilarious freak-out that I wish I was filming for Percy, so, go ahead, tell me you’re not getting laid.”

Gwaine huffs and pushes the weights up to return them to the stand. “You are evil,” he says. “Next time, I’m going to Ikea with Percy and Leon to pick out bookcases.”

“Coffee tables,” Elyan corrects him. “But nice attempt at taking an interest in someone other than yourself.”

“Ha ha,” Gwaine says flatly, and sits up, wiping sweat from his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “Of course I’m invested in their attempts to turn their crappy flat into something out of a catalogue: I have to sleep on that futon, you know.”

Gwaine learned a long time ago that it’s actually easier to couch surf around your long-suffering friends’ homes than it is to get your own flat and then keep remembering to pay bills. It’s just as well he’s charming, really, and that secretly all his friends have hearts made of marshmallow.

“Your attempts to distract me are pretty pitiful,” Elyan informs him, passing him his water bottle. “Who is she?”

“She’s no one,” Gwaine shrugs, wincing a little as his shoulder sticks: he should’ve stretched better.

“God,” Elyan says, “you haven’t found another devotee of nipple clamps, have you?”

“ _One time_ ,” Gwaine mutters, and decides that he needs new friends.

+

Morgana’s booty calls are never charming and rarely ever contain actual invitations; Gwaine’s been propping up the bar waiting for this one, though, while Elena tries unsuccessfully to hit on the bartender and Merlin writes a presentation for Arthur to give tomorrow in the notes function of his iPhone, alternating paragraphs with jagerbombs. 

“You’re not even his personal assistant anymore,” Gwaine points out, looking at Morgana’s text – _bored._ – and wondering if he can afford a cab; it’s pissing it down outside. 

“You should tell Arthur that sometime,” Merlin remarks, only slightly bitter. Merlin and Arthur’s… _whatever_ is a strange one, and one Gwaine is very determinedly not getting involved in. He’s got enough complex shit in his own life.

“So should you,” Gwaine points out, sliding off his barstool. Elena’s pouting, so he reaches for her blouse and undoes a couple more buttons. “It’s late enough that you can get your boobs out, darling.”

Elena grins, and Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Remind me why we’re always the last ones here?”

“Because Leon and Percy are all set up for people to shag,” Gwaine shrugs, “and Lance is no fun, and Elyan has a grown-up job in the morning, and Arthur is rapidly driving you towards some kind of weird alcoholism thing that I hope he’s at least _funding_ for you.”

“Fuck you, Gwaine,” Merlin says good-naturedly.

Gwaine waves his phone at him, too quick for Merlin to see any details. “Here’s hoping.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Just don’t accidentally email me the sex tape this time.”

“You can send it to me if you like,” Elena shrugs, eternally cheerful, and Gwaine leaves laughing.

+

Morgana’s knees are grazed under her stockings and Gwaine takes his time kissing the runs in the sheer material, the ladders that have formed while she was doing whatever it is she does for Pendragon Industries. 

She’s not quite stable, has never been quite stable, but she functions and someone better than Gwaine is keeping an eye on her, so he just pulls her Manolos from her feet while she curls an impatient hand in his hair. There’s mascara bleeding down her cheeks and her hair is a mess and every breath Gwaine takes smells of dying perfume and old cigarettes and something that is fundamentally _Morgana_ , something he’s managed to learn.

They don’t talk in bed; an unwritten rule set early on, when Gwaine discovered the sleazy lines of sex poetry he’s practiced to the point of reciting them without even thinking – _God, you’re so beautiful, and such a bad girl, I’m gonna make you feel-_ – just made Morgana laugh, pale skin and bruises and tangled expensive underwear like water under his fingertips. Even the useful speech – _left, harder, there, more, please_ – tends to be ignored in favour of Morgana _showing_ instead of telling, all fingernails and teeth and determination.

Gwaine likes that; it’s sexy as all hell, taking what he’s given.

He peels the remains of the stockings down her legs, her thighs fallen open with her designer dress spilled against the sheets. Morgana Pendragon, heir to a fortune, pissing off her family in every way she can. Gwaine’s been a bad boy to be taken home to a half-dozen fathers, has been threatened with shovels on more occasions than he can be bothered to remember, and that isn’t what this is, Morgana hooking an impatient knee around him, tugging him up into a kiss that hurts, that steals the breath from his lungs. Her lipstick smudges onto his own mouth, her fingers raking through his hair, and later he’ll carry the bruises for _days_ , trophies and punishments and notches on a bedpost.

+

“We should definitely meet her,” Leon says firmly.

Leon is the most sensible person Gwaine knows, which actually isn’t saying all that much considering his friendship circle also contains people like Arthur and Elena, but he’s still the one who tends to take Gwaine to A&E when things have got out of hand and actually listens to the instructions the doctor gives.

“I have no idea what you are referring to,” Gwaine tries, because it’s been a nice evening so far and he doesn’t want to have to punch Leon at any point – partially because Percy is very defensive of his boyfriend and also has arms the width of most people’s thighs. 

Leon grabs Gwaine’s wrist and tugs his shirt cuff up to reveal the marks of that time he and Morgana experimented with handcuffs. The bruises and scrapes look pretty terrible, but they’ve agreed to switch to softer things next time, or at the very least not use police-issue ones that Morgana acquired in a way that Gwaine isn’t asking about.

“Her,” he says simply. “And if you’re trusting her enough to tie you up then you should be able to bring her for a drink.”

“You can’t vet everyone I sleep with,” Gwaine mumbles, pulling his wrist back.

“He really can,” Elyan shrugs, “he’s got your facebook password.”

“ _Guys_ ,” Gwaine looks around the table. “I’m sure we had a conversation about boundaries a while ago.”

“We had a conversation about how you don’t have them,” Elena reminds him.

“We don’t want a repeat of the stalker situation, anyway,” Lance says sombrely.

Lance is a sweet guy and so startlingly good-looking that Gwaine periodically tries to make out with him when drunk because while he prefers women, Lance is _Lance_. Anyway, _because_ Lance is Lance, that never pays off, and he’s kind of a party killer. If he and Leon team up they could probably take over the world, albeit in a boring and admin-based way.

Gwaine attempts a handwave, but Elyan points out: “she was sending you jewellery made of her own hair.”

“She’s married now!” Gwaine tries hopefully.

“I know,” Leon mumbles into his pint, and Gwaine makes a mental note to change his facebook password.

“You _do_ have a terrible track record,” Percy offers, somewhat apologetically. “Remember that time you got duct-taped and put in the boot of someone’s car?”

“Youthful indiscretion!” Gwaine protests.

“Last year,” Lance corrects.

“I hate you all,” Gwaine tells his friends, because he can already tell he’s lost this argument. Not that he’s going to randomly bring Morgana to the pub with him; she shows up sometimes, generally dressed like Helena Bonham Carter (which shouldn’t have become endearing; Jesus, he’s in trouble). Her best friend happens to be Elyan’s sister and Lance’s girlfriend, because their friendship group is actually a little incestuous when you stop and try to untangle it, so Morgana’s presence wouldn’t be entirely unusual, but Gwaine still isn’t going to invite any more chaos into his life.

“We say this because we care,” Elyan tells him, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk, while Leon nods and gives him earnest eyes and Lance just looks kind of _sad_. Gwaine supposes he must be slightly difficult to have as a friend, but he likes to think he brings much-needed excitement to their lives.

_I think Leon suspects something_ , he sends Morgana.

_This is because you are the least subtle person to ever attempt subtlety_ , she responds after a while.

She has a point.

+

Uther Pendragon decided to deal with his daughter’s demons with all the medication he could persuade doctors to prescribe: when Gwaine first met Morgana a few years ago she was quiet and pale and there was a flatness to her personality created mostly by antidepressants. Morgana’s eventual decision to free herself from her father’s choice to keep his children quiet, obedient and away from any sort of psychological scandal was long, brutal and tough on the whole family: even now, she and Arthur have an awkward relationship that runs more on friction than on friendship.

Gwaine doesn’t want to get involved in what is or isn’t going on in Morgana’s head, in the pill boxes in her bathroom cabinet or the psychiatrist’s number stuck prominently on her fridge, underlined twice in Arthur’s horribly earnest handwriting. Morgana has had enough people digging around in her mind with no idea what they’re doing: he doesn’t want to add himself to that list.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Morgana asks, plucking the post-coital cigarette from Gwaine’s mouth and taking a drag. 

“We’re never fucking after your therapy sessions again,” Gwaine replies, because he doesn’t know what Morgana wants to hear.

Morgana laughs, propped up against her pillows with her hair curling around her bare shoulders. She’s beautiful, which isn’t a thought Gwaine has too often, because making her _beautiful_ rather than _sexy_ is too complicated, too much for whatever bruising each other during energetic sex really is. Her make-up is still perfect, which is slightly unsettling, but that’s Morgana for you.

He reclaims his cigarette, shifting so he can lean against the headboard, not close enough for them to touch, but close enough that there’s something like camaraderie there. Gwaine’s always liked Morgana; she’s difficult and spiky and frequently maddening, but she makes no secret about any of that, which is more than most people do.

“I could really do with a cuppa about now,” he observes at last, trying to lean out of the way as Morgana deftly steals the cigarette back. 

“Then you can make it yourself,” she shrugs. “Bring me one too, actually.”

“You’re a terrible host,” Gwaine tells her, but he slides out of bed anyway, stealing the sheet to make himself a deliberately ostentatious toga as he goes. Morgana’s phone makes a little camera noise.

“I’m tweeting this,” she announces as he reaches the door.

“I thought Arthur had all your twitter accounts deactivated after Mithian sued,” Gwaine frowns, turning back.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Details. And two sugars.”

“If you want a cup of tea get your PA to get you one,” Gwaine complains as he walks down the hall, Morgana’s wooden flooring cold against his bare feet. “She’d probably make it for you without the need for some light bondage beforehand.”

“I don’t know why you think that’s a selling point,” Morgana calls him, and her laughter echoes through the flat.

Gwaine smiles to himself, something private and almost unintentional, and puts the kettle on.

+

“Do we need to have the safe words discussion again?” Leon asks without looking up when Gwaine drops into the chair opposite him. 

Gwaine’s got free coffee from Merlin with five inches of cream on top – apparently it just takes practice, and building up of a good base before you start to put the height in – so he’s content to sit here and needle Leon while he does something dull involving spreadsheets.

“Llama, llama, duck,” Gwaine recites dutifully. 

Leon arches an eyebrow at him.

“You said not to use words I would normally use during sex,” Gwaine tells him, and then frowns. “Maybe I should take ‘duck’ out.”

“I’m so glad you decided to come and see me,” Leon mumbles, reaching for his very dull and whipped-cream-free coffee.

“Merlin doesn’t have a break for another half hour,” Gwaine explains. “So you get to delight in my company.”

“I’m glad,” Leon deadpans. He finally looks up and scrutinises Gwaine through narrowed eyes for a moment. Gwaine knows this look of old; it’s the expression Leon wears when he’s trying to figure out if Gwaine is malnourished, suffering from some kind of STI, or developing any kind of substance abuse problem. There’s no point acting hurt or complaining about Leon not trusting him, so Gwaine sits still and lets himself be examined. Leon’s more maternal than Gwaine’s mam ever was, actually, and sometimes he kind of likes that.

“Is that a lovebite or a thumbprint?” Leon asks at last, pulling aside Gwaine’s shirt collar.

“Hey,” Gwaine says, “remember that girl I was not-exactly-dating who tried to strangle me with her bra? This is definitely not like that. I learn from experience.”

He thinks Leon suppresses a smile as he sits back in his chair. “Well,” he says, “it’s nice that you think that, anyway.”

+

Morgana makes Gwaine come to dinner with her and Arthur, because Morgana is a terrible person. It’s okay, though, because Gwaine knows Merlin will be there too, Arthur being unhelpfully codependant, and he’s always happy to throw up the excuse that he’s blagging a free meal; it’s worked before.

Arthur is his usual ridiculously gorgeous and just plain ridiculous self, dressed in an expensive suit and wearing obnoxious aviator sunglasses until Morgana flicks the lens of one of them and asks if he’s deliberately trying to look like a twat.

“I told him this,” Merlin says to no one in particular, already on his second martini. Morgana helps herself to the olives from his glass since Merlin doesn’t like them and smiles serenely at Gwaine.

“Scale of one to Morgana’s last birthday, how awkward is _this_ meal going to be?” Gwaine asks the Pendragon siblings, because it’s always nice to know in advance whether there’s going to be the need for a fire extinguisher.

“Are you going to order off the menu for Merlin again?” Morgana asks Arthur, propping her chin on her hands and assuming a faux-sweet expression.

“Are you going to sleep with the waiter again?” Arthur responds, and Gwaine spends a moment imagining what family meals must have been like when they were growing up before deciding that he’ll have to be a lot drunker to properly envision them.

“I’m not ruling out the possibility,” Morgana says evenly, though she’s already kicked off her Louboutins and is running a bare foot up Gwaine’s calf.

Merlin is reading the menu like his life depends on it, effortlessly tuning out Morgana and Arthur with the ease of someone who’s been doing it for years and knows it isn’t going to get any better if he tries to interfere. Gwaine considers texting Elyan and getting him to arrange a fake emergency for about an hour’s time, before the Pendragons start hacking at each other with steak knives, but then Morgana _did_ promise she’d let him eat her out in the bathroom before the coffee. 

Decisions, decisions. 

“I’m going to order something expensive every time you two look like you’re about to start drugging each other’s wine,” Merlin announces, not looking up from the menu. “Which, yes, I know, only happened once and everybody’s very sorry now, but frankly you’d do it again if you thought you could get away with it.”

“What he said,” Gwaine agrees, and reaches straight for the wine list.

+

He keeps his eyes on the waterfall of Morgana’s hair, falling around her face as she looks down at him, concentrating. Her knees are digging into his ribcage and her eyes are glittering.

Gwaine sucks in a breath that’s tangled with Morgana’s hand pressed to his throat, knuckles a solid warmth against his windpipe. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth, red and white, and her cheeks are flushed. He can’t take his eyes off her, wouldn’t even if she hadn’t told him not to, his wrists pressed to the mattress above his head and heels skidding against the sheets. 

Morgana rides him slower than he wants, and it’s agony not to move, not to just thrust up into her. He can see she knows this in the half-smile that keeps tugging at the corner of her bruised mouth, because more than anything else, Morgana likes to _win_. She’s wearing his shirt, buttons spilling open to give tantalising hints of skin, and his head is pounding in time with his heartbeat, the sound roaring in his ears, throbbing behind his eyes. Morgana is counting, he can read it in her face, and when she presses down on his throat again it’s harder this time, tighter, and his lips tip open a little more, soundless, airless. He bucks, unable to stop himself, and it makes Morgana’s breath catch, makes her dig nails into his skin.

That he trusts her to do this probably says a lot: Gwaine usually goes in for sex that slips a little off the path of _straightforward_ , has been tied up and tied down and beaten and covered in candle wax and all those other things that make Elyan raise his eyebrows and Leon just look _tired_ , but he does try and stop short of things that could actually hurt him. This… this could go wrong, though he’s stronger than Morgana if it came down to it, and he’s never minded being vulnerable with her. 

She eases up before Gwaine can see stars, though his vision is definitely a little cloudy, and his lungs burn as he breathes a frantic breath in. Morgana is watching his reactions with something like fascination before she leans down, surrounding him with her dark hair as she seals their mouths together, kisses him with his chest still tight, still half-drowned.

He longs to tangle his fingers in her hair, to grab her hips and shift her just a fraction to the right, but somehow he trusts her, and that means staying where he is and letting Morgana do what she wants, thumb stroking softly over the marks she’s leaving on his throat.

This is sex with Morgana: just a little stupid, just a little weird, and just a little bit better than he’ll ever willingly admit to anyone.

+

“I thought you’d swapped out choking for that thing with the shoes,” Elyan says over Chinese takeaway, cheap beer and channel hopping at Lance and Gwen’s much-too-nice flat. Gwen is looking very knowing, actually, but she’s hiding it well behind her bowl of won ton soup, so Gwaine pretends not to notice.

“No,” Percy says, “he only did that thing with the shoes with Vivian, he swapped out choking for candle wax.”

Gwaine looks between them and then muses: “I really do overshare, don’t I?”

“Your life does make _Fifty Shades of Grey_ look a bit _Anne of Green Gables_ ,” Gwen remarks, grabbing a handful of prawn crackers off the coffee table. 

Leon tuts softly and everyone ignores him because you don’t ever want to get caught up in a literature discussion with him.

“We still don’t know who you’re shagging,” Elyan remarks after a moment, frowning at Gwaine. 

“I’m shagging _everyone_ ,” Gwaine replies, waving a vague hand and hoping that that will cut it.

Because his friends are his friends and there are technically no secrets anymore, though, none of them buy it.

“You have fingerprints on your _throat_ ,” Lance points out, sounding concerned. 

“Nobody’s tried to kill me with a bra underwire this month, though,” Gwaine tells him. “Actually, I think that sounded better in my head.”

“Most things you say do,” Elyan tells him, smirking a little. Gwaine chucks a balled-up napkin at him, hitting him neatly on the forehead because he’s not actually _completely_ incompetent, thank you very much.

They leave off eventually, though, when Gwaine doesn’t give them anything and Percy’s channel-hopping turns up a repeat of _Don’t Tell The Bride_.

_Arthur’s a dick_ , comes Morgana’s text.

_I can be over in about an hour_ , Gwaine replies, while Gwen gets an obviously similar text and grimaces at her phone.

_Not that I thought I’d ever say this_ , Morgana says after a while, _but I think I might actually be out of condoms._

Gwaine thinks about it. _I can bring cold Chinese and nick G &L’s copy of _Shakespeare In Love _?_

It takes a while for Morgana to respond, and when she does he eases out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. 

_Throw in a bottle of wine and I’ll see you in an hour._

When he looks back up, he finds Gwen is watching him and smiling to herself, but she doesn’t say anything, and, after a moment, Gwaine smiles back.


End file.
